Home for Christmas 1941
by marylinusca
Summary: On his last Christmas leave, Carter wonders if he should be fighting or not


**Home for Christmas - 1941**

_How can I celebrate the birth of the Prince of Peace when I'm ordered to fight a war?_

Sergeant Andrew Carter, United States Army Air Corps, tried to make sense of it. On this day dedicated to peace, the country, and the Sioux reservation at Bullfrog, North Dakota, were unfamiliarly, uncomfortably, reminded of war.

He looked around his little church. His family was here. His parents, his older brother Daniel and his kid brother Tom. His relatives from all around the Midwest, and even from as far as Manitoba were with them; although the latter were mostly the uncles and aunts, the girl cousins and the children.  Their young men had gone overseas when Canada declared war over two years ago.  Now they had come to say  "Good-bye" and "Fight well" to him and Dan and their American kin.

His friends were here too, surrounded by their families and their families' good wishes. Almost all the young men were in uniform.  They looked proud, nervous, and vulnerable, just like him. Few of them knew exactly where they were going, and everyone wondered when, and if, they would meet again.

All branches of the armed forces, male and female, were present, in their dress uniforms. His brother Dan, smart and proud in his naval blue, was heading west. Andrew remembered the devastation the Japs had wrought at Pearl Harbor, and shivered with worry for him.

Ben Little Gopher was training as a medic.  He still did not know where he would be sent.  George Massie was in Officer's Training School, to the secret envy and not so secret scorn of all his peers.

Ben's sister Sally, with other WACs, was starting on the paperwork involved in moving large numbers of men to their embarkation points.  She gave him a flirtatious wink.  Andrew felt his cheeks blush, and hoped that Mary Jane would not notice. Mary Jane, his fiancée, stiffened and glared back.  Sally giggled.  Andrew blushed hotter.

Turning his head away from Sally, Andrew saw Uncle Bow-in-the-Sky gnawing at his lip.  He looked away, not wanting to intrude by staring.  Cousin Philip had left Canada in the mid-Thirties and taken American citizenship a year before their war started. Not to get out of any conscription. Prospects for becoming a commercial pilot were better in the States. Uncle Bow had hoped America's neutrality would spare him from fighting.  Phil was his only son. But America was now fully involved, and Phil Carter, his lieutenant's bars gleaming in the candlelight, was already preparing to go with the first wave of Air Corps to England.

Andrew craned his neck backward, to where Grandfather White Wolf sat upright between his two eldest sons: Andrew's father, John "Brook that Gleams in the Sun" and Uncle Louis David.  He caught his mother's reproving glance and turned his eyes back to the minister, but he felt his grandfather's gaze redden the back of his neck.  Grandfather had watched him intently since he came home on leave.  _He doesn't look at the other guys that hard. Perhaps he's anxious that I measure up to his high standards. I hope Grandfather's pleased that the Army Air Corps made me a sergeant; but I don't think he's found whatever he's searching for in me._

He kept his eyes on the crèche in front of the pulpit. The crèche had been there every Christmas since he and his siblings and his cousins were little children, and maybe even before then.  It had been there in the depression and drought of the 'Dirty Thirties' that had just ended. The paint on the ceramic figures had faded so much it was hard to discern their expressions and the shepherds and wise men were badly chipped; but it was a familiar sight.  When he was little, he had reverently touched the tiny head of the Baby Jesus with a hesitant forefinger, hoping it would bring his family wealth and luck. It didn't, of course. He did not believe that anymore.  Not since the accident to Paul. But it was very comforting to see Joseph, Mary, the Baby, the angels, the shepherds, and the animals in their accustomed places, especially this year.

_Yes_, he thought, suppressing a shiver. _Especially this year._

He was a technical sergeant now, he reminded himself again, hoping to stop the knot in his chest from tightening.  Three stripes above.  Two rockers below. The new rank badges felt stiff on his sleeves. But he did not feel like a leader of men should feel.  He remembered the sergeants who had bossed him since his induction the previous year. They were tough. He couldn't act tough.

What was he attempting to prove?  He had spent over a year learning to fight for his country, but he felt he knew nothing about war. He felt sick at the thought of killing people. He didn't think he could do it; wasn't sure it was right, but he had no choice.  He would be overseas by early Spring at the latest, bombing whatever he was ordered to bomb.

He recited his litany. He wanted to serve his country.  He wanted to set the captives free.  Hitler, Mussolini, and Emperor Hirohito were dictators who had taken over other countries and killed people without justice or mercy.  To stop them doing it, he and the Allies had to take over their countries. To do that, he and they must kill the soldiers who were following the dictators' orders.

It didn't seem right he had to kill ordinary Joes, like he was, to get to Hitler.

Yet what could they do but kill them?  The air force of Japan had attacked Pearl Harbor.  The United States had to fight back.  Its honour was at stake.  As the grandson and great grandson of Sioux warriors who had fought with Sitting Bull, Andrew knew that if you did not fight, your enemies would not respect you, and you could not respect yourself.

But it seemed hypocritical to sing in a church, in front of God, about serving the Prince of Peace and then go overseas and fight a war.

_What does God really want? The signals seemed so mixed._  Andrew looked at the nativity scene, hoping the figure in the manger would provide an answer.

He could imagine being born in a stable.  After all, cows, horses, dogs, cats, and mice are born in stables.  They are dark, warm, friendly places, for the most part.  Andrew smiled. He loved being with animals. He loved their earthy smells. He and his cousin Paul used to spend hours in Uncle Standing Cloud's barn, milking the cows or grooming the horse or curled up in the hay with the cats, talking or just being together.

He stole a glance at his cousin.  He had missed being with Paul. Letters and phone calls were fine – and they had written many letters and called lots of times – but he always ached more when he put down the phone or folded up the letter.  How was he going to cope when they were too far apart to hear from each other every week?  It would be years before they were together again.

Andrew frowned, trying to divert his thoughts from their impending separation. He thought back to the stable. Animals weren't really peace loving. Cats preyed on rats and mice.  Deer and rabbits were afraid of wolves and snakes and hawks. It wasn't safe to go out on the plains or in the hills without a rifle, in case you were attacked by a cougar.  

And what you did not shoot in self-defense, you shot for food. Among the Sioux, you had to be a good hunter and trapper, especially during the lean years just past. Depression and drought had caused too much hunger and dug too many graves. Shooting a rabbit or a gopher put meat in the stewpot that you could not afford to buy in the store.  Sometimes a badger's death was all that had kept his family alive.

Maybe peace wasn't so natural.  Yet, killing other human beings did not seem to be following the teachings of Jesus.  He had said not to return evil for evil; but to show mercy and forgiveness.  To bless those who persecute you.

_God would want me to protect the weak, and those people being invaded are certainly weak.  I don't get why we had to be attacked ourselves before we would fight for them; but we're going to do it now. _Andrew felt some comfort in that. They were at last doing something to help.

He looked at the crèche.  _"I want to do what You want; but tell me what it is."_

Andrew stole another glance at his cousin Paul, and bit down hard on his lower lip.  Paul Carter was the only young man present who was not in uniform. The left side of Paul's face and body bore scars from acid burns, and from shards of wood and metal. And there was that metal claw resting on his lap, where his left hand should have been.

Paul Carter had not lightly been named "Angry Rabbit with Thorn in Cottontail".  It was an accurate, succinct description of the young Lakota Sioux. Outwardly quiet and reserved, he nursed a deep, burning resentment at injustices that pricked him like thorns he could not withdraw. His accident had not deprived him of his keen mind or his determined spirit. Yet, all anyone outside the reserve saw was a one armed Indian. He was a first class chemist, but no chemical or pharmaceutical company wanted him near their laboratories. Angered, Paul had become a teacher and returned to the reserve, determined to make the next generation of their people a force to be reckoned with. Andrew loved and admired him still, but it hurt his heart that his carelessness had maimed the blithe companion of his childhood.

Paul felt his cousin's eyes fix on him. He turned slightly, very slightly, so that his parents would not suspect he was not paying attention to the Christmas sermon.  His heart sank as he saw the familiar look of self-blame on Andrew's face.

It was supposed to have been a prank – showing off their knowledge of chemistry by making a bomb to scare their teachers.  People in their high school called them by their initials – A&P, like the store – because they always played pranks together.

But something went wrong, and the mixture blew up.  Thank God, Andrew had been far enough away not to get badly hurt.  He could not have borne his own agony if his gentle cousin had also been harmed.

Paul looked down at his metal 'hand'.  What if A became as bitter a 'cripple' as himself, fighting the 'white man's war'?  How could he take that?  His cousin Andrew – "Little Deer Who Goes Swift and Sure Through Forest" – was a sweet-natured person.  A man who gave his all even to strangers, without thinking of a payback. A man who would risk all to do the right thing.  Andrew wouldn't impose his needs on anyone, no matter how much he hurt.

Looking at his hand, thinking back to the accident – to the pain, the loss, the long hours clenching back his frustrated anger as he fought to make this 'thing' do what his hand once did – Paul knew how intense agony could be. _"God, spare Andrew what I've gone through!"_

But that was selfish. Andrew had to go to war. He was going as aircrew – the most risky branch of the military. What if God, for some reason God alone knew, let him get hurt?  Paul had to prepare him. Andrew had to know what to expect, what pain could do to him and how he could use it to survive. It was a terrible Christmas present to give his dearest friend; but maybe it would make him more careful, and that would keep him safe. Andrew was sometimes too eager, too excited, too outgoing or too easily distracted. Anything that warned him to keep focused and be wary was a plus.

He could not be by his bedside, if the next to worst thing happened to him.  But he had to know that he would not endure it alone.  They were A&P.  The inseparable Carter cousins.  No matter where they were, somehow, he would share it.

After the noon meal, Paul wrapped his good right arm around Andrew's shoulders.  "A, we've got to talk, but not here.  In the barn."

Andrew looked surprised, but nodded willingly.  They bundled up against the cold wind and headed for the barn.  While Paul pulled the door shut, Andrew forked out enough hay to make a sweet smelling mound in one corner of the horse's stall.  The horse, a mare, whickered a little anxiously.

For several minutes, the two young men sat in silence: Paul trying to frame his 'lecture'; Andrew searching for an answer to soothe his doubts away.

"Remember 'Wise and Patient Horse'?" he said softly, offering a carrot to the mare.  "This was his stall."  He let the memories flow through him, warm and sweet, like hot chocolate. "We'd come here and feed him carrots and lumps we snitched from your mom's sugar bin."

"'Horse'?  Yeah.  I've never forgotten him."  Paul leaned back against the stable wall.  "He was a good friend."  He held out another carrot to the mare.  "I still miss him."

Andrew reached up and gently stroked the mare's nose. His expression grew somber.

Paul looked at him in concern. "Dad had to shoot him, Little Deer," he said carefully.  "Horse was old and sick. He was already dying."

Andrew avoided his eyes. "I know. What I don't know is how he could bring himself to kill him."

"He did not want to see him suffer." Paul saw his opening, inhaled and started through it.  "Once or twice, I wished Dad had done me the same favour."

Andrew turned to him then, eyes wide. "Don't say that!  Don't ever say that!"

Paul was taken aback by his cousin's vehemence "Sorry, Little Deer.  I don't mean to hurt you; but sometimes… ."

"Sometimes…?"

"Sometimes, in the hospital, or in rehab … I wondered if the gain, if any, was worth the pain.  I had a lot to work through.  One day I'd be fine, grateful to be alive.  Next day, I'd feel sick and useless and cursing everyone for being whole.  Including you."  He looked at Andrew.  "I want to tell you what it's like, in case it happens to you; but I don't know if you can take it."

Andrew bridled. "I know what you went through.  I was with you in the hospital, every day ..."

"You visited me, but you weren't inside me.  You don't know how I felt."

Paul covered his face with his hand. "I didn't lie to you.  I never would do that. I told you then what I thought you could take then.  I didn't want you to blame yourself more than you were doing.  I … I couldn't take both that and the pain."

Andrew patted his sleeve, watching his cousin struggle with his emotions.  He did not know how to comfort him, even what to say.  That Paul had spared him was just like Paul, and that Paul, for his sake, would dredge up memories he had buried deep and hoped to forget was just like Paul. He looked away, more conscience stricken than he had ever felt.

"Rabbit, if you don't want to tell me…" 

"I have to tell you. I'm the one who knows," Paul exclaimed. He lowered his hand and looked up at Andrew, his face ghastly but determined. "A, you'll be halfway around the globe and if it happens to you, I won't be around to tell you you'll survive it.  The worst part's not losing the limb, although that's worse than you can imagine.  The worst part is staring at your shattered future, knowing you can't put the pieces back together the way you want them. You curse God, the world and everyone in it – at least I did.  You've always had the gentler spirit. Maybe that will make it easier to endure, if you're maimed.  I hope it won't make it harder. But I thought my life was over – that they should've shot me like Dad shot Horse."

Paul described his feelings, treatment by treatment, as fully and dispassionately as he could.  Andrew listened in silence, his hand on his cousin's arm. He knew every treatment Paul had received. He had supported him through them. He had gone through a few treatments of his own, but his physical injuries had been minor. The trauma of seeing Paul lying inert, without his arm, connected to more tubes and wire than he had ever seen, had been the worst. It had never completely left him.  But he had never gone through what Paul went through, fought what he fought.  Paul was right. He did not know from the inside.

"Everybody treats you like a crippled old man. You have to fight that, A.  Fight it with all you've got or you'll start believing it.  Once you believe it, then you really are crippled."

Andrew nodded, more to relieve his cousin's mind than to acknowledge his understanding.  All he did understand was that he loved Angry Rabbit more than ever for willingly reliving his suffering for him.

Paul saw the anguish staring out of Andrew's eyes.  "I'm sorry. I want you to know what it's like for me, so that you know what to face, and that you're not alone. I've been through it, and I'll be with you, wherever you are. You'll survive it, and we'll deal with it together.  Nothing can stop us, Little Deer."

Tears stood in Andrew's eyes. "I know that, Rabbit.  Nothing's ever stopped you."  He put his arm around his cousin.  "Don't worry.  I know you're always with me. I'll always be with you and I promise I'll tell you everything that happens."

"Everything the censors will allow," Paul amended.

"Yeah. Well, don't worry about that either.  I'll tell you everything about everything the moment I'm home again.  And you'll tell me everything that happens here, right?  And you'll take care of Mary Jane for me?"

Paul's face clouded. "Sure, A," he promised doubtfully. "If she lets me do it."

Andrew's expression hardened. He rose and stroked the mare, his back to his cousin. "Why don't you think she'll be true?  You know we've loved each other since we were kids."

Paul chose his words carefully. "Deer, you must've met other girls.  In Muncie, or in the town outside your airbase…."

"Not like Mary Jane," Andrew stated emphatically.  "Besides, I don't think Mary Jane would approve if I liked other girls."

Paul sighed. While he had never seen Andrew's fiancée do more than swing her hips to encourage wolf whistles, the fact was she did encourage them.  If she did more than that, he was not going to stop her. Better Andrew got a 'Dear John' letter than an unfaithful wife.

He smiled. "Of course, you'll probably come back intact and we'll laugh about my fears – you and me and Mary Jane."

"No, we won't." Andrew squatted beside him.  "Whatever you want to tell me, I want to know.  But, I feel kinda hurt, P.  I thought we always leveled with each other."  He paused.  "Would you have told me about what you went through if I wasn't going to get shot at?"

Paul shook his head. "No. Why should you suffer if you didn't have to?  Besides, it took until now for me to make up my mind."  He searched his cousin's face. "A, something was already on your mind when we came in here. Why don't we deal with that?"

Looking down, Andrew pulled a straw apart between his hands. "Paul, I don't know if we're doing the right thing, fighting a war.  Here we are celebrating Christmas, and so are the Germans and Italians, and soon we're going to kill them and they're going to kill us.  Is it right?"

Paul hemmed. "Why are you asking me?"

"Because you don't have to go.  You can give me a straight answer."

Paul gave him a rather sour laugh. "I'd go with you like a shot if I could. I'm missing the adventure and the chance to brag about my courage.  I envy you that."

"But I don't want to kill people if it's not right."

"You have to." Paul reached over and flicked the chain from which dangled Andrew's 'dog tags'.  You're government issue now.  G. I. Joe. Washington says, 'Fight!' You fight."

He pondered Andrew's question, hoping to be helpful. "You've got a matter of conscience, and those can't be solved with a universal equation: 'This is right. That is wrong.'  Some are sure the war is right and just. Some folks truly believe that people should not kill people. Some people say it's God's will to obey even a corrupt government, since God lets it exist.  Others say it's God's will to oppose a corrupt government, or oppose the idea of killing against conscience, be the government good or bad. 

"Uncle Bow-In-The-Sky says there's a religious sect near his reserve that says all war is wrong. But even their young men have doubts. Some went anyway, Uncle Bow says, because they want to fit in or they believe fighting the Nazis is right or because their neighbours call them 'Krauts' because they keep to themselves and speak German. Some went because they think they should do something to help relieve the suffering, or because of the chance for adventure. They're either fighting or they're medics, stretcher-bearers, office staff and such. Some of the others are doing 'alternative service' on farms or forestry camps. Others went to prison because they want no part in the war effort, period."

Andrew grimaced. "I still don't know about myself. What if my doubts make me a bad soldier?  I could get people killed."

"I thought that was what they trained you to do," Paul grinned.  Then he grew serious.  "What do you think, deep down, about what has happened?"

"That what the Nazis are doing is wrong."

"And if they don't stop?" Paul probed gently.

"They should be made to stop."

He probed a little harder.  "Even if the only way to make them stop is to kill them?"

Andrew hesitated. "If it's the only way, yeah. But there should be some other way."

Paul sighed, and shook his head. "Appeals. Appeasement.  Sanctions.  I think everything's been tried. Nothing worked."

He paused, then said gently. "Are you afraid to go?"

"No. I'm not."  Andrew hesitated. "I'm scared I'll do a bad job; but I'm not afraid to fight, if fighting's the right thing to do.  I just wish I didn't have to kill."

Paul looked down, biting his lip. "A, I can't tell you if war's right or wrong."

He looked up, with a set face.  "Grandfather fought for our rights because he believed the white men had cheated us. Was Grandfather wrong to fight?  I don't think so. We lost our sacred lands, but I don't intend to lose our identity.  That's my war, Little Deer.  That's what I'm committed to for us.

"But Grandfather finally put his anger behind him and gave King George his blessing. He believes we have to fight, because the Germans are making slaves of other races. I don't agree with Uncle Bow's neighbours, but they should not be coerced into fighting. They should be free to believe what they please, so long as they're doing what good they can. I won't argue if their way is right or if mine is. There always will be war. So long as one person wants what the other has, there will be war.  So long as one needs what the other will not give, there will be war.  They're caught in it the same as you and me. But if you believe everyone should be free, you have to fight the people who believe everyone shouldn't."

They heard the creak and clatter of  the wooden door sliding open, then the sound of a man stamping snow from his boots, then of approaching footsteps.  Andrew and Paul rose to great the newcomer.

"I thought you boys would be here." Uncle Standing Cloud tousled his nephew's unruly fair hair and grinned at his son. "We knew you wanted time alone, but your grandfather wants to see you, Little Deer.  Better come inside now."

Andrew and Paul looked at each other again, then they nodded.  Andrew picked up his gloves and slapped bits of hay off them.

Standing Cloud tilted his head. "Is home too hard to leave?"  He put his arm around his nephew's shoulders. "It was hard for me too, and for your dad and your other uncles, when we left for our war."

Andrew ducked his head. "No, Uncle Stan. It's just …" He couldn't go on.

"Cold feet?" the older man finished, with a questioning glance.  Andrew shook his head vehemently.

His uncle appraised him carefully. "Misgivings?"

Andrew lowered his eyes.

"That's nothing to be ashamed of.  Every Christmas you're told that God wants peace and good will to men. This year, you're ordered across the ocean to kill people you've never met, in a war you did not cause. That's what you're struggling with, right?"

Andrew nodded.  "Right, sir."

Standing Cloud looked around the stall, then at his son and his nephew.  "I thought as much when I found you in this particular spot."  With his arm around Andrew's shoulders, he pulled some hay from the byre and offered it to the mare.  "Little Deer, I had to kill Horse. It would have been selfish to let him suffer another moment's pain.  Now you have to kill to free others.  I know the two situations are not alike but they have this in common.  We're both trying to end needless suffering as quickly as we can, in the only way we can."

"It doesn't seem the best way."

"You didn't think killing Horse was the best way either, but you forgave me for doing it." He sighed. "Andrew, Jesus was born among a conquered people. He died a long, agonizing, humiliating death under torture.  He knows exactly what the people in Europe are going through.  He knows you're helping to free them. Whatever He thinks about the method, He'll say you are doing the right thing. He'll say, 'Well done.'"

Seated in his chair, White Wolf leaned forward and cupped Andrew's chin in his hand, tilting it up.  Their eyes met.  White Wolf scrutinized his grandson's face minutely.  _"We are sending my Little Deer to face the wolves.  He has too much love for mankind, too little hate.  How will he survive?"_

And yet, the old Lakota saw something in Little Deer – something not only good, but strong.  He knew his grandson well, had watched him grow into manhood.  Of his many grandsons, Deer was the most vulnerable, because he was so tenderhearted, so openhanded, so straightforward. _But there is courage in him. He will stumble, he will hesitate, but he will press on. And there is cunning in him, as there is in the deer that doubles and redoubles across the water to lose his scent trail. He is a good student: intelligent, eager and responsive. Under a wise, patient commander, with supportive companions, he will do well. He will pass through the fire, but he will be refined, not consumed._

White Wolf swallowed hard. _I wish I could have seen him return to us. What a man he will prove to be._

Kneeling, with his chin cupped in the gnarled palm, Andrew studied his grandfather's lined face. It was impassive. White Wolf disliked showing emotion.  Yet the keen, searching eyes were those of the man he most admired.  But White Wolf was ninety years old and growing frail. With a pang in his heart, he realized that his grandfather would likely be dead before he returned home.

Andrew thought about what his uncle Stan had said. Perhaps he would never be fully confident that it was right to kill, but he felt confident that he was going to fight a good fight. He would fight to win back the freedom and dignity the Axis powers had stolen from other peoples, just like his grandfather had fought to regain the freedom and dignity their people had lost. Just like Angry Rabbit would continue to fight their grandfather's fight. They were both Lakota warriors, the grandsons of White Wolf, who had taught them to use the wisdom and courage of their ancestors for the good of all peoples. He vowed he would not disappoint him.

Bending forward, White Wolf put his hands firmly over the badges of rank on the sergeant's upper arms. He raised him, held him close and nuzzled first his right cheek, then his left.  Andrew felt wetness on his face.  He knew he was crying, and that it was unmanly; but was he crying so much?  He looked up in astonishment. His tears were reflected in his grandfather's eyes.

"You are going to war, Little Deer. Far away from me. Far away from Angry Rabbit. Carry my blessing and his love proudly.  Go boldly when you can, warily when you must.  God protect and bless you, and may He bless others through you."

"Yes, Grandfather.  Thank you."  Andrew rose. Then he bent and kissed his grandfather's cheek. "I love you so much," he whispered huskily.

White Wolf smiled. "You have always been the joy of my soul, Little Deer.  Wherever our paths go, be strong in my love."


End file.
